


Vulcan Sundae

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Food Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim teaches Spock the delight of eating with more than one’s fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vulcan Sundae

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to imera for being a muse. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are many, many aspects of humanity that Spock simply doesn’t understand. The appeal of ‘brain freeze’ inducing treats is one of them.

The way Jim first introduces it makes sense. They’ve been working out, not exactly full-fledged in the gym, but simple demonstrations and lessons of Vulcan martial arts. As Jim has a tendency to take one too many risks during away missions, it only makes sense for Spock to give him all the self-defense tools possible. Jim’s already a skilled fighter, but new abilities are still beneficial. The room becomes stifling hot fast, sweat rolling down their bare chests as they dive between blows, sparring and attacking and countering. When they break, both panting, Jim suggests ice cream for a snack to cool them down. As Spock’s quarters only have sufficient seating for one, he chooses to sit on the bed, which can accommodate the both of them. 

Jim comes back from the other room with two small bowls of vanilla ice cream and a canister of some unidentified, brown semi-liquid, clearly replicated. Jim takes a seat at the head of the bed next to Spock, the mattress so narrow that their knees are touching, and he hands over one bowl. Spock takes it with a polite, “Thank you.” But he doesn’t begin to eat it; there are no utensils. 

He glances at Jim, who lifts the tiny bowl to his mouth, licking the top flat. On the second lick, he notices Spock’s stiffness and licks his plush lips clean to say, “When it’s practically in a cone like this, you can just eat it directly.” He knows by now that Vulcans don’t eat with their hands. 

Vulcans do eat with their mouths, but usually not so... directly. Spock blinks at the sugary confection before hesitantly bringing it up, hoping that his cheeks don’t show any signs of green. He’s always a little self conscious about loosening his tight Vulcan grasp around Jim, as Jim will often stop to make comments or grin lecherously like he’s now doing. He blatantly watches Spock’s lips part, Spock’s tongue slipping out, patting the ice cream and slipping over, lips closing again to scrape at the scoop. Spock stares doggedly forward while the ice cream melts on his tongue. He doesn’t go in for another taste until Jim does first, and then it’s Spock’s turn to (albeit more subtly) ‘observe’ Jim’s mouth in action. 

Jim’s fingers are worse. They’re holding onto the cup a little too high, and some of the ice cream trickles down over them. Jim doesn’t hesitate to switch hands, bringing the one with the mess up to his face, tongue sliding between the grooves of his fingers before the first digit pops into his mouth. He sucks on it while Spock sucks in a breath; he knew inviting Jim to his quarters and partially removing their clothes would be dangerous. 

He just didn’t think it would be so dangerous during a meal, and this whole thing is... very _confusing._

Jim’s very confusing. Jim makes things that are dirty impossibly intoxicating, and the way his food is smeared across his hand makes Spock shiver—how primitive. But then Jim’s licking up the trail across his palm, and Spock finds himself clenching his jaw almost painfully tight. 

“If you don’t eat it fast, it’s going to melt,” Jim warns Spock in a sing-song voice, hand clean and now reaching for the container left in his lap. He pops the lid open and upends it, a nozzle-like tip streaming something brown and shining. Knowing Jim, it’s most likely liquid chocolate. Jim drizzles a few lines across the top of his ice cream before pouring an ample amount on two fingers, which he immediately shoves back into his mouth and sucks languidly. The throaty moan he makes is not unlike the ones he tends to release right before an impending orgasm, and both that and the sight go straight to Spock’s crotch. 

Spock left Vulcan a logical professional. Serving with Jim is slowly chipping away at that. Sometimes he thinks Jim goes out of his way to over-stimulate Spock into a spiral of emotions. Today, lust’s clearly on the menu. 

But they were just training, and even though they’re off duty, they’re still a starship captain and a first officer, and for goodness’ sakes, they’re _eating_. So Spock turns his head away and continues to slowly make a dent in his ice cream, quietly trying to mediate. 

Naturally, Jim ruins all that by pouring probably-chocolate sauce all over Spock’s bowl and hands, and Spock manages to jerk his pinky out just in time to stop a stray droplet falling down to his pants. “Oops, sorry,” Jim laughs, because of course, embarrassing Spock is always _funny_. If Spock were Dr. McCoy, he’d be scowling.

Instead, he says, “I will retrieve a towel. Do you require one as well, Captain?”

“A towel?” Jim asks, still holding the bottle open. “What, for the chocolate sauce? It’s _food_ , Spock—just lick it off.”

“The fact that it is food is precisely why a towel would be advisable; it would be inappropriate to—” To...

Spock can’t even finish the thought. 

Jim’s leaned over, completely bypassed Spock’s ice cream, and gone straight for Spock’s fingers. He’s drawing a wet trail right over Spock’s skin, swapping saliva for chocolate. It’s not... an entirely unpleasant trade. Jim kisses Spock’s thumb at the end, and as Spock struggles to say, “Jim—” a fresh drizzle of chocolate sauce runs up Spock’s arm. He’s clutching the ice cream too tightly to jerk away—he doesn’t want to make a mess. Jim takes it all the way up to Spock’s shoulder, and then he squeezes the container, causing a large glob to splatter down Spock’s chest. Spock’s eyelids flutter as his pecs are drenched, a thin layer oozing down over his nipples. Jim caps the container and places it down, then plucks the bowl right out of Spock’s hands. 

Jim puts that on the dresser. Jim puts his own on the dresser. Jim shifts around to sit in front of Spock, and he takes Spock’s hand, lifting it up to kiss the back of it. It’s chaste, as first. Then he’s darting out his tongue, sucking at Spock’s skin and lapping up the lines of Spock’s knuckles. Spock attempts to suppress a shudder. This is... this is...

This is one of those devastatingly _wonderful_ things that if he ever got caught doing under his father’s roof, he would’ve been kicked right off of Vulcan. Jim caresses Spock’s fingers with his own as he licks his way slowly up Spock’s arm, pressing in hard and gathering all the sauce. Spock can’t imagine it tastes very good—Spock knows his t’hy’la prefers sweets to the blandness of Spock’s preferred flavours—but Spock’s dark hair must be getting in Jim’s mouth, and he’s still covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Jim doesn’t seem to mind. He breaks off near the end and collects the rest of the mess over Spock’s bicep via short, open-mouthed kisses, his lips growing stained and untidy. 

Spock desperately wants to kiss them. But Spock also doesn’t want to be party to this irrational lewdness, and he stays as rigid and unaffected as he can manage, always trying to be _Vulcan_. Jim’s his greatest _weakness_.

Jim does this on purpose. Jim wants to drive him mad. It’s the only explanation. It’s illogical, but so is everything _Jim_. Jim nuzzles into the crook of Spock’s neck before running his free hand across Spock’s chest, smearing the chocolate sauce everywhere. 

It started room temperature, but it’s slowly cooling. It feels strange. Makes his skin tingle. It probably won’t drip all the way to his pants, but it is slowly descending in parts. Spock... doesn’t know what to do. 

Spock leans back against the wall while Jim starts licking down his chest, making him inadvertently arch into it and desperately want to moan. Jim’s created quite a mess, and his swipes are broader as a result, both longer and quicker. He eagerly laps at Spock’s chest, never once complaining about the taste underneath. Spock finds himself just barely managing to breathe, “Captain, this... this is not what food is for...”

Jim pauses, face still pressed tight against Spock’s body, fingers still caressing Spock’s wet hand. Jim rubs his nose into a cleared patch of skin and breathes in, taking a whiff of Spock’s raw scent and murmuring, “This is what my mouth is for. Touching you, tasting you, pleasing you...” His impossibly blue eyes flicker up to Spock, and he asks with an impish grin, “Does this please you, Mr. Spock?”

Everything Jim ever does pleases him, even when he says otherwise. All Spock can do is nod obediently; he won’t give words to this and he can’t deny it. Jim smirks and rewards him by licking his nipple, trapping it in that warm mouth and suckling on it beautifully. Spock’s head rolls back against the wall, a deep groan caught in his throat. 

He’s so lucky. A Vulcan partner might’ve been better in some aspects, but... Jim knows things that would’ve never even occurred to a Vulcan... especially things in bed... Jim’s a master in the bedroom... sometimes, he’s Spock’s master...

Jim licks over to the other nipple, treating it the same way. Spock leans into the touch. Spock fails at not participating. He lifts the hand that isn’t being caressed to run through Jim’s silky hair, tugging it gently the way he knows Jim likes it and holding Jim in. Jim takes his sweet time. 

Jim uses two fingers to drag more sauce down Spock’s stomach, stopping just before Spock’s black, standard-issues pants, and then Jim’s mouth is following behind. He traces all the lines of Spock’s muscles and stomach, and he dips into Spock’s bellybutton, tongue pressing in. His fingers slip from Spock’s, and both hands begin to tug down the hem of his pants. Spock holds his breath. Jim gets just far enough to pull out Spock’s dick, already shamefully hard. It’s always difficult to stay entirely flaccid while Jim’s in his room. 

Jim reaches back for the container of chocolate, and Spock nearly whimpers, “Oh...”

“Shh,” Jim soothes, not listening. He uncaps the bottle and hovers just a few centimeters away from the heavy cock before him, holding it in place as he begins to pour the warm, smooth liquid all down his length. Spock’s eyes scrunch closed. His cock isn’t food. This is... this is most unusual... but it feels so good, slicking around his skin, drizzling down to meet Jim’s fingers, trailing down the head and gathering in his slit. He’s afraid to open his eyes.

He does anyway. Jim sticks his tongue out as far as it’ll go and runs it all down Spock’s shaft, not pressing hard enough to clean, just enough to spread. He accidentally gets a little bit too far down the base, and then he pauses to suck that off, cheek pressed against Spock’s dark pubic hair. He’s so _filthy_. Spock tries not to think about all the times he’s kissed that mouth, but he does anyway. He wants to do it again. His cock twitches against Jim’s attentions. So irresistible...

Next, Jim kisses to the tip, which he presses his tongue into and swirls around. He pops his lips over the mushroom head, and he sucks once, forcing Spock’s breath to hitch. Then Jim sucks harder, cleaning it up, and Spock moans. Jim begins to slip down his cock, slowly, lips pressing in hard, tongue darting from side to side beneath it to catch the spills. Jim’s pink lips are stretched and smeared with saliva and chocolate. His eyes flicker up to Spock’s, dilated and half-lidded. 

There’s such _love_ in Jim’s eyes that Spock’s heart nearly stops. It’s a special talent of Jim’s: looking ruined and debauched but beautiful, dirty and devious and adoring all at once. They’re everything to each other, Spock knows, but it’s still always so devastating to see. Jim slides all the way to the base like he was meant for this, and he starts to twist around it, licking and sucking and cleaning Spock up. Spock has the irrational wish that he’d stuck his cock inside the whole bottle. 

Blowjobs aren’t a Vulcan practice. They’re something that Jim’s had to enlighten Spock on, and he admits the first time was dubious. Rapturous, but dubious. He felt naughty and strange. He’s done it back, and he knows he has a strange fondness for the taste of _Jim_ on his tongue, but it’s still... odd. This is a whole new level. It’s as though there’s an extra coating of lube easing the ebb and flow of Jim’s tight throat, and Jim’s tongue is busy with extra fervor, the suction constant and overwhelming. Spock gets far too close far too quickly, but he can’t help it, not with Jim tearing him apart with pleasure like this. If the elders ever saw him, he’d be exiled. In this moment, he doesn’t care. He’d pick _Jim_ over the entirety of the Vulcan race, and he knows that implicitly, because he’d pick Jim over _everything_.

He comes apart under Jim’s ministrations. He tenses suddenly, balls tightening, and he tries to warn Jim but can’t get his mouth to work. It ends up moaning so loud that it’s almost a scream—he’s ashamed, but he knows that Jim likes it when he’s vocal in the bedroom. He arches into Jim and explodes down Jim’s throat, adding his cream to the chocolate. Jim keeps sucking hard, gathering it all and squeezing it all out, and Jim slips off enough to use his hand at the base, as though he’s trying to milk everything out of Spock’s dick. Spock crumbles. He pours every last drop into Jim’s greedy mouth, and then he’s sinking back against the wall, body boneless and mind numb.

Jim has a way of pulling everything out of him. Jim takes a few last sucks and pops off, darting in to quickly lick up any stray patches of chocolate left behind. Then he grabs Spock’s knees and yanks Spock suddenly forward, so that Spock’s back falls down to the mattress. Jim’s immediately on top of him, nuzzling fondly into the side of his face. 

“You taste delicious,” he purrs, far too sensual for someone who’s just sinned so gravely. Spock means to scold his t’hy’la, but instead he just mewls happily. 

Jim chuckles and kisses his cheek. Spock’s too weak to pull away. Stretching out and snuggling into him, Jim takes a small rest too. 

It’s a few foggy minutes later when Jim mumbles, “I know you won’t want to go that far, but will you lick sauce off my fingers next time?”

Spock would lick Jim’s boot if he were told to. He doesn’t say that. He says as levelly as he can manage, “In the privacy of our rooms, I will consider it.”

Grinning, Jim says, “Love you.”

Spock has no reservations about replying, “I love you, as well.”

He’s rewarded with a sticky kiss to his lips, and it tastes sweeter than it should. It lasts longer than it should. Spock enjoys it too much. 

When it’s done, Jim sighs, “We should go back to sparring.”

Spock asks, “Has our ice cream melted?” 

Jim sits up. Because of that, Spock regrets asking the question. Jim glances back at him, armed with a dangerous smirk. “Where should we pour it this time, Commander?” Spock wants to protest. 

Spock sits up and reaches for the nearest bowl, pushing Jim down with his other hand, ready to let his captain lead him to brand new things and lap up every second.


End file.
